As we grow from children to adults, we learn things. We learn what’s possible and not possible in the world. We learn that there’s no such thing as invisibility. We learn that animals can’t talk to us as humans can talk to one another. We learn that humans can’t breathe underwater. We learn medicine works better than magic when we’re sick. That certain fruits and vegetables only grow at certain times of a year.

These are all useful things for survival, but not so great for imagining new and different things. Is it a coincidence that adults often refer to children as ‘having imagination’, but often never say the same thing of another adult?

Perhaps imagination is not some gift that only lasts for as long as childhood. Perhaps it’s possible to cultivate it in ourselves by retraining how strictly we accept how the world works as we age. In fact, some of the most ‘imaginative’ stories that exist in our culture seem to be proof. In these stories, there is invisibility, animals can talk, humans can breathe underwater, and magic works better than medicine to cure sickness.

This is not some call-to-arms to let misinformation about the world proliferate in a post-truth era, it’s simply a reminder to myself – perhaps the way to more imaginative storytelling is to think about the rules of the world and then think, what if it wasn’t like that? What if, on a snowy walk one day, I found a fig in winter?

This post was inspired by a quite from Epictetus which reads, “What you love is nothing of your own: it has been given to you for the present, not that it should not be taken from you, nor has it been given to you for all time, but as a fig is given to you or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season of the year. But if you wish for these things in winter, you are a fool.” And while Epictetus was talking about our false sense of ownership over the world and how little we control, the idea of a fig in winter, as foolish as it sounds, feels exactly the sort of ‘nonsense’ we need to embrace a little more in order to fire up our imaginations and create a world of possible in our writing.

This journal runs on a commitment; a commitment to myself that I would write something to my future self once a week – something I’ve learned or an insight I’ve had. I began the practice because I found it useful in helping me learn and grow as an artist and a human. A weekly reflection, so to speak.

The truth is, I didn’t write last week. In fact, this journal project was the furthest thing from my mind for the past fortnight. Why? Because there were more important things to deal with – a family health crisis that needed my full and undivided attention for a while. The crisis moment is over but it’s likely that the next few months, maybe years, will need more attention than I’ve given it in the past; and I value that more than this journal.

If one starts searching, ‘How to be a successful or productive artist’, it won’t take anyone very long to come across what I call ‘no matter what’ commitments. These are artists or business people who say that the only way to be ‘successful’ or make progress with your art is to “Write a page a day, a chapter a night, keep a sketchbook, do a doodle in the morning… no. matter. what.”

But, I’m not sure anyone really means that though. After all, every person is different –  we’ve all got varying levels of actual no-matter-what commitments already; meeting mortgage repayments or paying off student debts, putting food on the table, caring for the ones we love or like, investing in our physical health through exercise and eating good food – all these things take time, energy, and attention and, let’s be frank, are more fundamental to our physiological existence than writing a page a day.

I used to think this journal was my no-matter-what commitment. That’s kind of how it started. And, to be fair to the no-matter-what evangelists, the idea of that commitment has had benefits. But, when it comes down to it, our no-matter-what commitments are fundamentally driven by our values – the things we feel are most important to us at any given time. Right now, for me, that’s providing support to a family that needs it.

This all doesn’t mean I won’t journal regularly – after all, I’m doing it right now – it’s useful for my mental health to write things down and, through this practice, discover and embody what I’ve learned. But if the point of this journal is to help me learn and grow as an artist and a human, maybe, sometimes, I can achieve the same thing by simply being – investing my time and attention in the things that are truly most important to me. Surely paying attention to those things, no matter what, won’t just help me be a person I want to be, but might also turn me into a better artist, too.

Comics is a new medium to me. It looks interesting. After almost a decade of working in picture books I know now that I can draw and I can tell a story. I’m familiar with the length and complexity of the stories that work for this age group. I’m familiar with how these books are used in the home and in school.

But, I’ve got bigger stories to tell.

The first comics project I dreamt up was a multi-book series – a fantasy/adventure. It went something like this:

Thought to be a tale the elders used to discipline kids, The Grey has taken over the world and colour has disappeared. After many years of training, Ri, the best 12-year-old colour hunter from her village, and Yuri, her giant red wolf, set out to bring colour back to the world, just as she was trained to do. But when the Telling Caves don’t provide the answer she believed would come, Ri uses her unique mix of creativity, resourcefulness and friends to rescue the world from its colourless curse.

The manuscript is written (Part 1 is 20,000 words long) and, just based on a few visuals and a storyline pitch, I already have publisher interest. It’s kind of a dream come true.

I’ve tried sitting down to thumbnail this story out, multiple times, but find myself stuck. I’m struggling with flow, dialogue, camera-shot selection, drawing the environment… basically, everything.

So, I’ve realised something (that I’ve also since learned is a cliche), first-time comics creators always bite off more than they can chew. Jim Zub and Kazu Kibuishi have both talked about this in various interviews. The advice? If you can’t write and draw a 3-page story, you’re not going to be able to make a 3-book series at 120 pages per book.

The thing is, I know this. And yet, I’ve walked straight into the same trap.

Building the skills

So, I’m taking my own advice. I’m writing small. And now, with 3 smaller projects under my belt, my confidence in building – both in what it takes to tell a longer story, but also, in using the format for what it’s good for. Making comics is not something you can read a book about and then execute on – it’s like riding a bike – you’ve gotta get on and start peddling.

In a 2023 residency, generously supplied by The May Gibbs Children’s Literature trust, I (to my surprise), made a comic. This Generous Earth was my first attempt and, almost a year since writing it, I can see that it’s rough around the edges but that my heart is well and truly in it.

In mid 2023, I submitted 10 pages of a much longer story that I’m still not ready to complete, Phillip and Crane, to a SCBWI picture book awards category and, sure enough, earned a High Commendation. It’s a super weird story but the publishers saw something. I love that story – it, once again, comes from my heart – but I need some more practice before I can do it justice.

Over the 2023/24 summer break, I found myself staring at clouds one day and wrote a very short story which turned into Evaporation. It’s only 12 pages, but the story is tight. It’s good. And I learned a lot. Especially about how to use colour. (See where I’m going? Colour Hunter?)

The feeling I got from Evaporation gave me momentum. That momentum turned into The Mountain and The Flower. The longest (and most complex story) I’ve drawn to date (~70pp), but I found myself more motivated than I have been for a while. I learned how to take a longer project and fit it in around life and work. A few hours a day (one in the morning before work, a few hours after work). I saw and felt progress. I gained confidence in my ability to draw environments, and texture, and push my use of colour further than what I did with Evaporation.

The big game is approaching

I feel like I’m circling Colour Hunter. Making smaller, lower risk projects and getting to the end, quickly. The stories I’m telling are slowly increasing in page count. I’m learning how to pace longer stories and use colour (and the absence of it) with absolute intention to help enhance the story. I’m re-thinking those 20,000 words of Colour Hunter – how can I be clearer, more compelling, use the medium for what the medium is best designed for?

I’m not there yet. I feel I need one or two smaller projects under my belt. But, I’m moving down the field, one yard at a time, and it feels good.

It might seem disappointing that I can dream up a story I’m not yet capable of making but I think the opposite is true. When we’re making art that’s truest to ourselves, our expectations of ourselves are always ahead of our capability – if they weren’t, well, we wouldn’t keep trying, would we?

If the answer to this question is yes, I know I’m on to something.

Towards the end of 2023, I turned down offers from publishers to illustrate books. I know, saying it out loud sounds bizarre. The texts were fine (not amazing), and I could have done something really nice with them, but I’ve been changing.

Over the last 8 or so years, I’ve worked on over 20 picture books. It’s been a huge learning curve and a lot of fun. I’ve worked with some of Australia’s most popular writers and some of Australia’s best publishers in children’s books and have been represented in all of that by one of Australia’s most generous and thoughtful agents. I’m so grateful for those 8 years.

But, I’ve needed to step off the treadmill for a while. Picture books are wonderful, and each one brings its own set of unique opportunities and challenges, but it’s not art, it’s design. There are pre-defined consumers of this work – children, parents, publishing editors and, the ones with the most power, retailers.

All of these audiences want something – more diversity, a female lead character, some nice language that matches up with a syllabus in school, a pretty cover for a bookshop display – the list of these needs go on. I enjoy finding ways to meet these needs through a picture book and using the medium to represent a truer version of Australia than has been historically represented. I learn a lot along the way. But, with a pre-defined audience and set of needs, one always ends up problem solving for them, not for one’s self.

There’s no room in the picture books to ‘re-invent the medium’ or to try something genuinely new. Especially in Australia where the market is tiny the business models that support picture books don’t allow for this sort of risk-taking. Sure, you can try a few different things here and there, but the spectrum of possibility is narrow when it comes to making, marketing, and selling these things to the various audiences that will pay for them. “New” ends up being incrementally derivative.

Retreating from the picture book world has been necessary for me to get back in touch with what I’m thinking and feeling about the world without viewing it through the lens of a children’s publisher. I believe in the power of books. I believe in the power of storytelling. But I also believe that capitalism isn’t a great medium for bringing diversity to the world. Finding truly original and interesting ways to express one’s self and tell a story is unlikely to happen when the question up front is, “How many copies of this will Big W buy?”

The work I’ve made over the last few months has been, in my own opinion, some of the best and most authentic work I’ve ever made. Some of it has been minimal, cute, and fit for a young mind. Some of it has been thoughtful, intelligent, and complex. Some of it has been kind of disturbing – depending on how you look at it. But these ideas don’t exist for commercial purposes, they exist for me. The internet lets me share them with folks who might be looking for something different; a story to inspire their child (or themselves) beyond what’s on the shelves at Big W. A story that might change the way *they* think about their relationship to the natural environment. A story a publisher can’t fit into their catalogue or schedule because it just won’t make enough money.

Thing is, I’m not in it for money. Never was. It’s one of the advantages of not relying on book work for income. And so, with that advantage, the main way I can help others is to make stuff I can afford to make. To tell stories into the gaping void that is the internet in the hope that they will connect with someone who’s curious (or poor) enough to listen.

Before I was published, I had an Instagram account where I’d draw a single image and write some words to give it more context and expand the story. It’s not something I scoured the market to create – looking for a ‘gap’ that needed filling – I just did it because it was fun.

After a while, I tried to describe to myself what the fun bit was. I landed on “short adventures in words and pictures.” Over time, this fun little exercise was noticed by a publisher who saw that, perhaps, I could do this professionally.

And so I did. For a number of years. I’ve illustrated my own writing, and, more often, I’ve illustrated others writing. But either way, it’s always been about the relationship between words and pictures.

And now, I’ve discovered I’m leaning into a new medium – comics. It might seem ‘different’ from children’s books (and sure, it is, a bit) but it’s also fundamentally about words and pictures. The difference between children’s books and comics is the level of complexity one gets with the word/picture relationship. Picture books appeal to the minimalist in me, Comics appeal to the film director in me.

Yes, the children’s work is more lucrative and commercial because the ‘market’ is there and businesses have been built up, for many years, to serve that market. But comics is becoming an increasingly interesting and useful part of my practise; not my work practise, my art practise.

In the end, the general thrust is the same – short adventures in words and pictures for small and big people. I used to be the former, now I’m the latter. I never thought that the idea would last that long, let alone be the foundation for a decade’s worth of work. It’s funny how things work out like that.

It feels weird to say this out loud, but most people don’t notice what I notice. They don’t notice when the door handle is a little jiggly. They don’t notice it takes a few extra clicks than it should to buy a movie ticket. They don’t notice that I coloured out of the lines a bit, or that the character I drew on one page doesn’t quite match the character I drew on the next.

Because I know people don’t notice those things, I’ve learned to let them go. Perfection can be paralysing and so I’ve found that by letting those things go, I can ship more work, get more feedback, and do better on the next project. In a commercial arrangement, done is better than perfect.

But, what if you’re only working on a project for yourself? When the person who consumes the work is the person who will notice those things?

I’ve almost finished a second graphic novella and I find myself poring over those pages looking for the things to ‘fix’. There is no client. There is no buyer. This story is for me. And so, I notice what’s not right and I feel compelled to change it until it is. It’s difficult to know when done is done.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve had that experience but remembering it feels nice. It’s worth remembering. Priorities in a commercial arrangement are (quite necessarily) different from the priorities we set for ourselves in our personal work. Being clear, from the outset, about who and what the project is really for may give us the best of both worlds – shipping and learning from commercial work, obsessing over the details when the work is just for us. Maybe, over time, they’ll rub off on each other and make both types of work better, too.

I’ve never been concerned with creating something ‘new’. I certainly don’t consider myself a neophile. Marketers would call me a laggard. In fact, these days, I tend to find myself going the other way – building a vinyl and CD collection, reading physical books, using hand saws over electric ones when I can.

But I’ve recently been watching Juni Ito talk about his work in horror manga and the question he’s been asking himself over his long career strikes me as a lightning bolt, “Why would I want to create something that’s been done before?”

I’ve talked before about the value of mimicry in learning and the fact that people don’t really want original. But now I’m thinking, that only makes sense when it’s a commercial pitch. A publisher doesn’t want to take a risk on something never seen or done before; too much can go wrong. And so, if the goal is always, ‘will a publisher buy this story?’, then the work will never change. It’ll become incrementally derivative – enough for people to think it’s new, even though it’s just a small twist on something old.

But as an artist (with an income stream that isn’t reliant on the art itself), the stakes are different. I’m beginning to agree with Junji on this – why would I do something that’s been done before? Why wouldn’t I spend my short time on earth making a genuinely unique contribution? To spend it any other way seems… less generous.

Like many other artists, I spent a lot of time waiting for someone to care. I waited for someone to say, “Hey, you’re good at this. We could sell this. It’s good enough to make a living off. You’re a working, professional, successful artist now.”

The problem with this is that, even if it was possible, it’s highly unlikely. There will be no long days in the studio where you can work contently for 12 hours a day, everyday, funded by a kind or generous patron or your own work. If I keep waiting for that, I’ll die waiting.

Instead, I’ll move the ball down the field one yard at a time. An hour before work, a couple of hours after work, every extra frame I sketch and ink is another inch further down the field of having a completed project. And, once I’ve reached the end zone, it’s unlikely there will be a crowd waiting to cheer, there will be no celebratory victory. I might treat myself to a nice dinner, but then, I’ll just turn around and start moving the ball down the field in again, one yard at a time.

I don’t know about others, but I can’t just sit down and write a story. And I don’t mean that I need to do what most people talk about – plan a story with 3 acts, character biographies, fresh and detailed worlds, conflict, climax, resolution etc etc. No, I mean I need to feel the story before I can write it.

Instead of words, I start with sketches. Characters emerge on the page as I’m sketching lines and contours. It doesn’t take much – a couple of curves, a few marks for eyes and a nose, and my brain is engaged, much like, I imagine, a sculptor may be as they respond to the changing shape of the stone that sits otherwise inanimate in front of them.

As someone who admires writers, this often feels like a failure. Shouldn’t I just be able to use words to imagine and create these worlds? But then, occassionally, I come across others who seem to work like me; people searching for an image that gives them the ‘essence’ of the story (as Hayao Miyazaki says in the documentary 10 Years with Hayao Miyazaki).

Searching for the essence of a story through drawing has always felt like a hack – a band-aid solution that masks my inability to write well – but I’m becoming more comfortable, day-by-day, in finding my story through marks of pencil on paper, which, at the end of the day, is what a writer of words is doing anyway.